


The Doctor

by Unrepentant_Marvelite



Series: Moving Forward [3]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Brain Damage, Canon Disabled Character, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Just Don't Fuck With Logan, Medical Procedures, Poor Charles, Seizures, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6677347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unrepentant_Marvelite/pseuds/Unrepentant_Marvelite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles has a confusing day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doctor

When Charles opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the whiteboard by the door with the day’s schedule. Usually, lined up neat in the little rows that mark off half-hour intervals of his day are a dozen or so different activities all aimed at rehabilitating one part of his brain or body or another. Usually, he won’t remember completing half of them by the day’s end but that schedule always remains in sight reassuring him that, yes, Charles, you did exist during those periods today that are now only fogged out blanks in your memory.

Today, however, everything after noon is erased and “NEUROLOGIST!!!” is printed in big, colorful block letters. Raven must already be around here somewhere, Charles thinks. His sister often “improves” his schedule when she decides the nurses haven’t made it pretty enough.

Raven has been very excited about this particular appointment. Today marks a transition in his case full-time to the neurology department from neurosurgery. The nurses have been cheerily assuring both of the siblings that this is a sign of progress meaning Charles is moving forward from the acute stage of his injury to the chronic one. Charles doesn’t think that sounds like very much progress at all. He thinks his neurosurgeons just don’t know what to do with him anymore so they are passing his case off to another department. Or maybe they’ve just gotten bored with him now that he’s no longer doing anything interesting like leaking cerebrospinal fluid out his ears. Charles is careful not to share any of these thoughts with his sister (or, at least, he hopes he is. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what he’s said aloud and what he’s only thought in his head.)

Charles reaches out for the call button that’s never far away. He pushes the button and it flashes until there’s a knock on his door and Manuela, the nursing assistant, comes in, all smiles.

“Good morning! How’s my favorite doing this morning? Do you remember me, Charles?”

He nods and she smiles and takes his good hand to get a pulse.

“Do you remember my name today, baby?”

“Manuela,” He croaks. His mouth is dry and he wants to get the glass of water on his side table but Manuela is taking his blood pressure now with the little machine and he knows not to move while it’s still reading.

“Good, good! How about where you are right now?”

“Neuro rehab unit, room 1…” Charles closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. “Room 104?”

“Hey! Look at who’s having a great day already! Ok, Mr. Smarty-Pants, now for the tricky one: what’s the date today?”

She’s right of course. Numbers seem to slip through his mind these days like rivulets of water through a cupped hand. He can’t hold onto them without a good deal of repetition (that was how his sister finally taught him his room number) and the terrible thing about the date is that the numbers keep changing everyday. Maybe he’ll be able to get that question right by the end of the day but then it will change again tomorrow and he’ll be right back where he started.

He shakes his head (which is never a good idea) and Manuela tells him the date while the room comes back into focus. Then she gets the wheelchair from where it’s waiting against the wall (purposefully far enough away that Charles can’t get to it without calling for help from a staff member) and cranks up the bed so he’s sitting up some. The change of position hurts his ribs and makes his breath catch and stomach clench. The pain meds he’s still on are good enough that he can forget about most of the broken bones until he tries to move.

Manuela sticks her head out the door and grabs another CNA who Charles _knows_ he knows but just can’t quite find his name. The two of them get him out of bed and into the chair with practiced ease. Manuela takes him into the bathroom where she lets him pee while she starts the water running. Then she takes away Charles’ hospital gown and takes a warm, soapy washcloth to him. He knows he should feel embarrassed about getting sponged down like this but the past few weeks have taught him there are far worse indignities to suffer. He closes his eyes and lets her work, enjoying the smell of soap and the warm, gentle way she washes him. At least, he enjoys it until she moves to his right side where all the signals are still scrambled and the gentle pressure translates to a prickly, pins-and-needles feeling that would make him flinch away if he could move any of that side voluntarily. Manuela coos at him soothingly when she sees him grimace and turn away.

“Almost done, honey, just your arm left now.”

She grips it by the forearm and applies just enough pressure to match the spasm in his bicep. It takes a few moments but, finally, the muscle fatigues and gives way. Charles hisses with relief as his elbow pops and straightens for the first time in over twelve hours. He hates that part but it always feels good to work the cramps out of his arm and give the joints and tendons a good stretch. Manuela soaps and scrubs the limb and then goes to work uncurling his fingers in the same way. When she eventually peels his fingers out of his palm, there are little red crescents pressed into the skin where his nails have dug in during the night. She sighs and hands Charles a nail file.

“Here, honey, you work on those claws of yours while I change the sheets.”

She goes back into the room and Charles hears her turn on the TV as he tries to file down his fingernails before his hand creeps closed again. It’s frustrating, only having one good hand. He can’t hold anything steady and he wasn’t left-handed to begin with so everything is awkward and clumsy. He wonders if any of this rehab will actually make a difference and give him his arm back. His leg would be nice too, he thinks.

Manuela comes back then and takes over the nail-filing. She runs a careful hand over his head.

“Your hair’s coming back, Charles. Soon you won’t even be able to see the scars!”

He lifts his hand to his head to feel the growing fuzz. Where did his hair go?

“Why did I get it cut so short?” he asks, bewildered. Usually he wears it short but not anything near the buzz-cut he feels growing out right now.

“They had to shave it for your surgery, honey.”

That makes sense. He knows he had a surgery. It was on his brain and that’s why it’s hard to think now. He wishes he could remember why he needed it in the first place but… that isn’t important right now.

What is important is that Manuela is pushing him back into his room and what’s-his-name is setting a breakfast tray on the table. It comes complete with a little paper cup of pills that Manuela gives him to swallow down with a gulp of water.

Things fade together a little after that. The pills mean it doesn’t hurt so much to sit up anymore but he’s suddenly expected to do a lot more than just sit up in a wheelchair. There are stretches to do and weights to lift or pull or push. There are bars to reach up and grab and then to stand up and balance next to. There are people helping him to walk on tired, aching legs that don’t want to support his weight. When all this is over he must sit at a table and sort buttons by size and shape and color. Then he has to wrestle with a pencil and try to remember how to write his name. The worst part is he knows none of this should be difficult. It only makes it more exhausting and frustrating now that it is.

At some point, his body decides it has had enough. He remembers being on the floor and hearing one of the Occupational Therapists ask for a pillow in a bored sort of way because this is not the first nor even the twenty-first time this has happened before. Then things scatter away again until he finds himself in his bed, in a new pair of shorts he doesn’t remember putting on. But that’s fine! Everything’s fine because _Raven’s_ _finally_ _here_.

She’s curled up in bed with him, watching TV and waiting for him to wake up.

“Hi,” he tells her and she turns to face him, “Hi, yourself,” she says with a smile. That’s really the last thing he remembers for a while but somehow he ends up in the wheelchair again, Raven walking beside him as he is pushed down a long, bright hall.

“Where are we going, Rae?”

“To your doctor’s appointment, Charles. Remember? You get to see a new guy today.”

“Oh. Will he fix me, d’you think?”

“I hope so, I really hope so.”

It takes some time for them to be called back to see the doctor. The receptionist talks to the nurse who brought them over. They are using low, quiet voices but Charles recognizes the tone as the one he hears a lot these days from people who are talking about him.

“…yes, but the parents…!” the hiss carries across the room. Both look over guiltily so he has to pretend not to hear. Raven’s ears are going red and she pulls over a magazine at random from the stack on a nearby chair.

“Here, Charles, let me read to you,” she says with far too much volume and enthusiasm. She begins telling him about the latest scandal surrounding celebrities he’s never heard of and he tries to follow along with her as she reads but the words only make his head ache and soon he has to close his eyes to make it stop. It’s definitely an adequate distraction.

When his name is called, Raven pushes his chair into a little room and they are left alone. By now, his ribs are aching again and he wishes he could lie down and rest. He has just about made up his mind to ask Raven to help him onto the exam bed so he can rest when the door opens.

“I’m Dr. Harrison,” the man in the white coat says, holding out his hand to shake. Charles tries to return the gesture but of course his right arm only twitches and hurts. Raven just folds her arms across her chest and scowls at him when she hears her brother’s breath hitch in pain.

“We were supposed to see someone else. Where’s Dr. Howlett?” She’s pretty terrifying for a 10 year-old when she wants to be and Charles feels sorry for the doctor as he stops short and frowns around the room, bewildered.

“Uh… where are your parents?” he asks, clearly wrong-footed.

“Where is Dr. Howlett?” Raven demands again.

“Heh, you don’t want _that_ guy. He’s a quack,” says a short, hairy fellow. He marches through the open door and sits himself down in the empty chair right next to Raven. It is then that Charles notices the man is wearing what is quite possibly the ugliest flannel shirt ever created. It is plaid, checked with squares of… burnt-orange, blue and, dear God, is that meant to be pink or is it simply a horribly faded red? He can’t tell. Either way the thing needs to be destroyed and he notices he is actually feeling a little odd and queasy just looking at it… Or maybe that’s just the head injury. It’s an even chance between them, he decides.

“Who are you?” Raven says abruptly.

“Name’s Logan. Don’t mind me, doc,” he says to Dr. Harrison.

“I… wait, I still need to know where your parents are?” Harrison says, clearly trying to regain control of the situation.

“Nah, that’s not important,” Logan brushes away. “What’s really important is how the hell a 14 year-old gets himself a complex skull fracture without a couple of wheels, an engine and a six-pack of beer involved. Ain’t that right, Chuck?”

It takes a few moments of silence before Charles realizes he is being asked a question.

“…Sorry?”

“I’m just sayin’, bub, the kind of crack you’re sportin’? That normally takes a lot of force and a lot of stupidity and those usually come with a car wreck or some other type of outdoor dumb-assery. And yet here you are, asking me to believe you knocked your noggin like that just falling down the stairs?”

Charles blinks.

“Is… is that what happened?” he looks to his sister. She doesn’t look back. “I can’t remember… Raven?”

“He fell and hit his head,” she insists.

“Yeah, I’m not buyin’ it, kid. I been doin’ this a while and I’ve never seen somebody smash in their skull the way he did _and_ crack four ribs, a nose and a couple of teeth just from falling down the stairs.”

“Why not? That’s what happened!” Raven’s voice breaks a little as she says it but Charles can’t focus properly on why that might be because he _really_ doesn’t feel so good now. He thinks maybe he should say something, maybe ask the doctor for some pain meds, but he isn’t hurting exactly… he’s just… not…

\---

Everything feels much better when he wakes. The room is dark and someone smelling like pine trees is sitting close by. A gentle, calloused hand stills him when he tries to move.

“Sshhhh, kiddo, just hang tight a little longer. Almost done here.”

There is a computer screen reflecting light onto someone’s face… the doctor from earlier? There are squiggly lines tracking across the monitor and the voice next to him rumbles low, soothing noises that make Charles want to fall back to sleep. He’s so very tired.

“What’s…?”

“Just taking a picture of your brain, Charlie,” the rumble says.

“Please don’t call me…”

“…Charlie, right, right, sorry, your sister mentioned that. Ok, Chuck, just relax for me for a few more minutes here. We’re almost through.”

So Charles closes his eyes again. He hears the nice man murmuring something to his colleague at the screen.

“Are you fixing my brain?” he whispers.

“Naw, not yet. Just seeing where it’s broke.”

“And then you can fix it?”

“Maybe, bub, maybe...”

Then he is quiet for a while. Charles imagines he is floating on a lake, surrounded by pine trees with the wind whispering not-quite-words to him. It is very peaceful. He hasn’t felt this calm, this safe in a long while and he nearly manages to drift off. Then the man speaks again.

“Chuck.”

“…mmm?”

“You had a seizure, bub.”

“Oh… Sorry. I… I do that a lot now?”

“Yeah, so they tell me,” he can hear the man’s smile and it is pleasant enough that Charles feels himself grinning back into the dark.

“Did you feel anything different right before? Maybe knew it was going to happen?”

“I don’t know…” he’s still so very drowsy. “Yes, I think maybe. I felt sick.”

“That’s an _aura,_ kid. You let somebody know when that starts to happen next time. It’s a warning you’re gonna drop soon, ok?”

“Mmm…” he hums. Something about that rings a bell, like he’s heard it before but he can’t quite remember. Maybe this time it’ll stick.

“Was there anything that felt like it might’ve set you off? Any funny lights, a certain smell or moving too fast, maybe? Would’ve been just before you started feeling sick.”

“…I don’t know. I… maybe… it could have been your shirt?”

“My shirt?” he says startled into talking too loud. “What the hell’s wrong with my shirt?”

“Maybe not!” Charles quickly backtracks. “It could’ve been just being tired… and, I think my ribs hurt… that seems right, yes, I think that was probably it.”

“Naw,” the man chuckles, “I like the shirt thing better. We’ll go with that. Could come in handy, y’know. If I ever need to induce a seizure, I can just wear this again. Maybe I should have one of these residents write up paper on that…” he muses.

“You’re… you’re my doctor?” Charles hesitates.

“Yup, that’s me kiddo. What do you say, maybe we try to teach Harrison here a few things about doctorin’, huh? He’s one of my new guys. We gotta try to teach him something useful before he gets scared off like all the rest. Sound like a deal?”

“Sure,” says Charles, completely confused about what he’s just agreed to. But it doesn’t matter. This man… this Logan is nice and safe and he’s never felt like that with a doctor before so maybe it’s a good sign. Raven will probably be happy… wait…

“Where’s Raven?”

“Dunno,” he says while wiping some of the conductive gel off Charles’ scalp with a cool cloth. “Probably terrorizing the rest of my minions in the break room. That’s where I left her, anyway. Poor sacks. Not gonna know what to make of her, that’s for sure.”

“No,” Charles agrees. Not many people do with Raven.

“You go back to sleep now, kid. I need a few more pictures of this thing hiding in yer head here. We’ll talk more later when you’re feeling better.”

“Ok,” says Charles. He maybe should be more concerned but it’s hard to be concerned about anything when Logan starts rubbing some of the ache out of his sore shoulder. He is soon fast asleep.

\---

He has become very good at sleeping through the frequent door-openings and routine vitals-takings that come at even intervals throughout any night spent in a hospital. He isn’t surprised then (and he only starts a little), when the next time he wakes, someone is already in his room.

“Hiya, Chuck.”

“Dr. Logan?”

“Naw, just Logan.”

“That’s… um, ok,” he squints a little at the silhouette on the man in a chair by his bed. He appears to be chewing on the end of something. “Is that… is that a cigar?”

“Yup.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in here…”

“Does it look like it’s lit to you?”

“…no.”

He can see the grin flashing in the dark. “Watch you eyes, kid. I’m gonna turn on the light.”

And he does. Charles is grateful it’s only the small one by the nightstand and not the big overhead. It still leaves him blinking and his head spinning moments later.

“Where’s my sister?” he’s finally able to ask.

“It’s 8:20, kid. Tell me she isn’t usually here that late.”

“No, she has to be home in time for dinner.”

“Huh.” Logan is quiet for a while after that. Eventually, he shakes his head. “People are funny about their priorities, ain’t they?”

“…I suppose.” Charles isn’t sure what he means by that. He also isn’t sure what the doctor is doing here in the first place but it seems rude to ask outright.

“I got something to show ya, Chuck.”

“Oh?”

“You seen pictures of what your head looks like now?”

“I’ve… I don’t know. My memory isn’t so good lately, sorry.”

Logan snorts. “Naw, I figured. Ok take a look at this.”

He switches on the light box hanging on the wall and places a few X-ray films in front of it. They are of a skull. Presumably, Charles’ skull.

“You see this here?” Logan traces along a dark, thin shadow crossing the field of white. “And here?” He points out another and then another, all connecting to the first in a spider-web pattern.

“It takes a lot of force to crack a cranium like this. A lot of force or a lot of repeated blows to the same area. Since you and your sis seem to be sticking to the story that you fell down the stairs, a guy’s gotta wonder how you managed that. You hit your head in the same spot on every single stair on the way down, or something?”

“I… I don’t remember,” Charles tries. He is still staring at the black and white picture of his head. It reminds him of the shell of a hard-boiled egg, tapped until it cracks with a spoon and sitting in its little cup, ready to be peeled open and eaten.

“That’s ok,” he says wearily. He shuts off the light box and returns the X-rays to a manila folder he’s brought with him. He settles back in the chair drawn up close to Charles’ bed and begins gnawing on his cigar again.

“The thing is, Chuck, I been around long enough to know a couple of things. One of them is that residents are generally full of shit. That guy from before, Harrison? Smart cookie according to all his paperwork but doesn’t know squat about doctorin’ and especially doctorin’ to kids. In spite of that, he hit on something from before, probably by accident but doesn’t make it any less right. Before you had your seizure, he asked you the right question, d’you remember? Right question at the wrong time, of course.”

Charles shakes his head a little. He doesn’t know what Logan is talking about but he is worried he isn’t going to like it. There is something sharp in the man’s eye that makes him want to pull away and hide under the blankets. He feels exposed and naked under that eye.

“Where are your folks, Chuck?”

Charles blinks. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that.

“At home, I suppose. It’s late.”

But Logan isn’t satisfied. He leans in now like he’s telling a secret.

“See, now, that’s the kicker, ain’t it? You were in a coma for five days, Charles. You had three brain surgeries and two small strokes as a result of some mysterious blow to the head that somehow also managed to bang up yer face and ribs pretty good too. Not ever, not once in the twenty years I’ve been doing this have I seen that kind of damage to a 14 year-old and haven’t had the parents crawlin’ all over my ass for updates every step of the way. So I gotta ask again, bub, where the _hell_ are yer folks?”

Charles closes his eyes. It’s childish, but these days so much of his world fades away when he closes his eyes that he has to try.

“Please… please,” he hears himself whisper. “I’m tired, Mr. Logan. Can’t I please just sleep?”

“Soon, kid, I just need to get to the bottom of this. The thing that really scares me about all of it, Chuck, is that not once in your chart is there a mention anywhere of anyone having this conversation with you. No one has documented their concerns. No one has hinted at their suspicions. That tells me either I’m bat-shit crazy and imagining all this (which I ain’t) or…” Here he pauses to sigh, “…or someone with some influence doesn’t want us asking these questions. Good news for you, kid, is I don’t play that game. I don’t get into any of the politickin’ that goes on around here and no amount of money can ever keep my big mouth shut. So you tell me, kid, what happened to you? How’d you get hurt, really?”

“I don’t know,” Charles moans, he is uncomfortable now but not in the usual way. He feels trapped and hot and wants to make Logan leave. “I can’t remember, I told you!”

He drags the blankets over his head so he doesn’t have to see Logan looking at him like that.

The truth is, now he doesn’t need to remember. In this moment, for however long his mind lets him hold onto the thought, he doesn’t need the memories to piece it together. He has a pretty good idea what happened.

“You can’t, I know you can’t remember that day but you remember before, right? These kind of things, they usually don’t just happen one time. I saw your records, kid. You been stitched up more’n your fair share over the last few years. Broken bones too and from lookin’ at your x-rays, I’d say some of ‘em didn’t get set right away either. Who hurt you then, Chuck? Yer dad?”

“My dad is dead,” he says miserably.

“Step-dad, then. He’s in the picture, right? I thought I saw that somewhere…”

“Please…” Charles says softly. “Please, just let me go to sleep, Mr. Logan.”

“Chuck,” he feels a gentle tug on the blanket, pulling it away from his face.

“What about your sister, bub?”

Charles bites his lip to keep it from quivering. He shouldn’t be talking about these things, they are private, in the family, not for public eyes… He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. It’s just going to get him into trouble.

“Raven… she’s fine, we’re both fine. Please, please just leave me alone.”

“You’re not fine--”

“—I will be though! Soon, I’ll be better and then I can go home--”

“—and then what? Get the shit kicked out of you again? Or watch it happen to your sister?”

“No! Don’t say that! Please, that won’t happen!”

“Won’t it? You know this doesn’t stop, you’re a smart kid, you _know_ it isn’t going to stop!”

“It will, I promise, I’ll take care of Raven, I promise, I can protect her!”

Now Logan leans in again. His face looks tired in the half-light.

“Chuck. You’re 14 years-old and you got a long road of rehab ahead of ya. Why don’t you let me step in, let me take some of the load, let me keep you guys safe, huh? I can do it, bub, I want to. Just say the word.”

But Charles shakes his head, slowly this time. There are tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

“You can’t,” he whispers. The words are leaking out of him too, apparently. He doesn’t know why he’s even saying anything. “You can’t. You think you’re the first one t-to…” he bites off the rest, because he knows it won’t do any good. “M-my family has a reputation to uphold, Mr. Logan. Please, don’t say anything more. Please, you’ll only make things worse. I just… I just want to go to sleep. Please.”

He squeezes the man’s hand and hopes, desperately, that he hears him.

He remembers this, at least. He remembers an ER nurse from when he was smaller, telling him it was ok, that she would tell the right people and keep him safe. He’d believed her then. He knows not to make the same mistake now. Things only get worse if you say something, if your fight back, if you try to run, if you scream. These are things he knows in his bones, no matter how fragile they may be. No head injury can muddy these truths for him.

“Jesus, kid.” Logan sighs. He is quiet for a long while. The minutes tick past but Charles can’t breathe easier until he knows for sure.

“Mr. Logan…?”

“It’s just Logan, bub.”

He gives Charles’ hand one final squeeze before standing up.

“You just… you focus on getting better, ok Chuck?” He switches off the light and opens the door again to leave but Charles can’t stand the uncertainty. He tries to reach out and grab the doctor’s arm but he misses, his coordination is off and far too slow.

“Please--!” he cries as the door begins to shut. The worry in his voice must be obvious because Logan pauses and looks back.

“Don’t worry, kid. Things’ll be better in the mornin’,” he says gently, leaving Charles with a familiar old sense of dread to contemplate in the dark.

At some point, mercifully, sleep overtakes him. His fitful thoughts bleed into scattered dreams and broken circuits snap and fire into nothingness. Eventually, his mind wipes the board clean and Charles is left to wake to another day.


End file.
